


A Little Night Music

by Aldebaran



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: First First Bassoon Story, First POTO Story, First Third Trombone Story, M/M, No bassoons were harmed in the production of this fic, That's A Lot Of Firsts, hands by Saulo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24873979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aldebaran/pseuds/Aldebaran
Summary: The Phantom demands perfection of everyone involved in the production of Don Juan Triumphant.  Especially a certain first bassoon…A fic for littlelonghairedoutlaw's RarePairs Fic Contest
Relationships: Erik & First Bassoon
Comments: 13
Kudos: 53





	A Little Night Music

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wheel_of_fish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_of_fish/gifts).



> This is a special gift for Wheel_of_Fish on the occasion of her 50th Saturday Stream June 20th, 2020.
> 
> Thanks so much, Fish, for running these streams which have been such a source of joy for so many people, and a special thank you for your welcoming of "shy anons" which continues to coax people from the shadows
> 
> Thanks to all the Saturday Streamers! So much talent, so much fun!
> 
> Thanks to Saturday Streamer LadyRock18 for Erik's f-bomb
> 
> Thanks to littlelonghairedoutlaw for endless patience and geniality
> 
> A very special thank you to my friend and first reader Riffler for immense patience and many helpful suggestions!

* * *

Emile had been warned upon employ that the opera house was not safe at night. House management, fellow musicians, performers, all the myriad of technicians behind the scenes—costumers, scenic artists, stagehands—everyone had taken great pains to impress upon him that he must not be abroad the house post evening performances, not alone in shadowy corridors. Stick to the main hallways, the lighted areas, the safety of the small practice rooms, really at any time of day, but most especially at night. For the night, they said, was the province of the Ghost. The Phantom of the Opera.

Emile hadn’t believed. He’d come to believe. But tonight, because the music required it, he must break every rule he’d been told to follow. 

He was making no headway here, in this small practice room that confined the notes of his instrument, distorted them, swallowed any chance to hear whether his tone was true. He hefted the score that was driving him to recklessness. The music of _Don Juan Triumphant_ demanded the stage and the stage it must have. He would have to practice there, alone, tonight, with the vast blackness of the house pressing against his back, if he hoped to conquer that which both eluded and compelled him. 

He glanced around the practice room as he loaded his instrument into its case. Oh, he’d listened to the ghost stories; it was always prudent to listen. He had thought them tall tales his first few years, meant to amuse or frighten. The superstitions of highly imaginative theater folk, quick to blame misplaced items on ghostly theft, to name the strange sounds of a cavernous building as the whispers of an apparition. 

But he watched, as well as listened—also prudent. And he noted that no one walked alone, near the shadows, in the dark places. Since nothing, real or imagined, must come between him and his music, between him and this dream of a position at the Opera Populaire, he followed their lead, if not their beliefs. Prudently.

The instrument was safely stowed. His name gleamed from the brass tag on the lid. Emile huffed the semblance of a laugh. The tag was the only thing he owned outright. The bassoon—and the case—had been extraordinarily expensive and even now he was still paying for them. An investment, an instrument to match his talent. And this instrument, in his hands, could sing like no other instrument he had ever played before. Until now. Until the maddening brilliance that was the score for _Don Juan Triumphant_.

He gathered the score, placed it into his satchel. It was time to leave this dingy space. Even though now, he more than believed—he knew. The Ghost was real. 

Belief came for him the night of _Il Muto_. A soprano having a sudden issue with her voice mid-performance? Even in his short experience, he had seen such a thing happen. The death of the stagehand? Accidents…did occur. But the chandelier? He had taken the tour upon his start here, had seen the maze of cabling that suspended the great fixture from the lofty opera house ceiling. There was no possibility of it falling accidentally. He had been in the pit when it swooped overhead, felt the rush of air that sent his sheet music scattering. Those on stage and behind said the Ghost laughed as the chandelier fell. 

A truly prudent person would have left then. But the music was here. Therefore, he was here. Sticking to the light, avoiding shadows, practicing his art. The six months following _Il Muto_ had been quiet. Amid an exodus of company members and patrons, performances continued. The period of calm was almost enough to convince that the Phantom was gone or had never existed at all.

Knowing came the night of the masquerade. As a first chair, Emile had been obligated to attend. Standing alone, against a far wall, wishing only to be at practice, he was there when it happened. With a strange musicality to his movements, each step a note upon a staff, the Ghost, the Red Death, descended the stair, delivering his new opera and vanishing into thin air. Even had Emile not seen him with his own eyes, the music would have convinced him. Music like this had not been written by any conventional creature. 

The last few weeks mounting this new production had been anything but quiet. The Ghost was nowhere and everywhere. Notes for the managers, for the conductor, for Reyer. Issuing, apparently, an edict regarding the choice of leading lady. Rare fabrics and rich threads delivered unordered to costumers. Sketches and staging plans in an unknown hand to scenic designers. Actors and dancers alike reported subtle whispers in their ear during rehearsals, encouraging, excoriating. The Phantom demanded perfection. 

Emile shouldered the satchel, hefted the instrument case in one hand and a small lantern in the other. Perfection was not to be found here. Perhaps it awaited on the stage. Perhaps there he could find what eluded him. The need to be some small part, a conduit, for this transcendent music was enough to drive him out into the shadows of the darkened theater. 

Into the Phantom’s domain.

* * *

Erik stalked within the walls of the opera house. 

Must he do everything himself? Did these fools not know what a gift he gave them, what a gift to the world his music was, and that everything touching it, surrounding it must be perfect? Had they yet acted on all his notes and amiable suggestions? Oh, some few, yes, but not all. And it must be perfect. For him. For the world. For her.

Christine would not see him, would not come to him. Between rehearsals, she sought tawdry comfort in the arms of that idiot boy. He had tried to reach her, casting his voice, giving instruction on his _Don Juan_. He could not say whether she heard or not.

And yet, could he blame her? He slowed his furious rush, stopping, his cloak settling round him. She was—afraid. Of him. She knew he had killed.

And in his rage and grief at her betrayal with that boy, he had lashed out, loosed the chandelier. Never intending to truly harm her, but he could have. He had thought it best to absent himself for a time after that. He knew himself to be…unpredictable.

When, precisely, had it changed for him? When had his student, his means to bring his music at last to the world, become not a channel for his music but the reason for it? He had worked on _Don Juan Triumphant_ for years, waiting for the right voice to bring it to life. Yet in those six months of exile from her, the entire piece had been remade, transformed, his heart laid bare for her to see.

It must be perfect. She would see the perfection, see the soul and the beauty there, leave that foolish boy, and come back to him, choose him. Choose him. Save him. 

That boy and those fools, with their pitiful plans to capture him, kill him. Did they not know yet there was not a word spoken in his opera house which he did not hear? They had tormented Christine, caused her pain.

He had gone to her, afterwards. Almost she had chosen to return to him then but for that boy’s interference.

He would show them all, with his _Don Juan_. He need only watch from afar, see Christine soften and turn toward him in her heart as she sang his words, his music. And, when the opera concluded, when the world knew they had seen genius, when the world made Christine the star she deserved to be, she would know him as the architect of this grand design. She would turn to him, forgive him, go with him, forsaking all others. He and she, and their music.

The opera must be perfect, so that he would be perfect, in her eyes.

There were still so many things wrong. The lasso burned in his pocket. He could fix so many things, so easily, so quickly.

He was startled from his reverie by the sound of music. From the stage, which should be silent and empty, everyone else gone from his opera house at this late hour.

Music from his _Don Juan_. The bassoon line from “Searching for the One”, the new solo crafted especially for Christine.

His blood heated. The fucking first bassoon, one of the chief unaddressed problems remaining. By all that he held holy, not that that covered a lot of ground, he would do something about it if they would not.

His fingers moved towards the lasso as he turned, following the grating atonality towards the stage.

He stopped. For a wonder, the phrase had resolved, almost, nearly correct! Yes, definitely the first bassoon. That fine instrument, when used correctly, had a sweet, singing tone.

No—there it was again. Faltering. Off. Wrong. Abrading his nerves.

He paused in his forward start, listening, as the line was picked up, changed, renewed. Gorgeous, soaring, as it was meant to be played.

Then it faltered again, appalling, drifting into silence, the player clearly struggling, lost in music far above his understanding.

Erik reached the wings, settled in the shadows, watching the lone figure on the stage, pawing through sheet music. Almost, he pitied him. How could these fools understand his music? It must be explained. It must be taught. They could not begin to comprehend without his direction.

The lad—for he was yet a boy, Erik observed—tried again, reaching for the heights, falling to the depths.

The lasso caressed between his fingers, he within throwing reach. Almost, he moved. And yet—

Christine would not approve. And where would they find another first bassoon in time? Not the second bassoon, surely. Only the relative simplicity of his sections kept that one safe from Erik’s correction.

There was some talent here, for this boy—stripling, really— to have risen to first bassoon in one of the finest orchestras in all of France. Where was it in his faltering, fumbling fingers? 

He needed guidance. The heights he could have reached with some guidance, with some care, some nurturing of his passion and brilliance, instead of being lost, here, alone on the stage in the dark, tangled in music beyond his comprehension.

Yet still striving for it.

Erik… could be gentle. He had been gentle with Christine. She had called him her angel. She brought light into the dark places of his heart. She had grown and prospered and flowered under his care.

Could he be gentle now, with this boy, for her? 

Very well. He would try.

He allowed himself to be heard, watched the boy flinch, then called from where he stood darkly in the wings as he returned the lasso to his pocket.

* * *

Emile reached the stage without incident. 

Somehow he felt safer here than in the passages he had just traversed. The stage was broad and deep, the house vast. He’d have ample warning, room to run if need be. He looked up. If he sat here, at stage edge, there was nothing save the chandelier itself that could be dropped down upon him. And perhaps, if the Phantom and the ghostly composer of the opera were truly one and the same, the fact that he was here practicing _Don Juan Triumphant_ might provide him some small measure of mercy.

He had noted the timing of the watchmen’s rounds, and knew he had a few precious hours to himself before he risked—official—discovery. He lit two sections of the stage footlights and set his small lantern on a stool. A low backed chair and music stand were retrieved from the gloomy orchestra pit. It was exactly as he wished. Facing away from the house, as he would in the pit, the footlights illuminating his small area of the stage, the lantern dispelling the shadow of his own body upon the sheet music.

The bassoon quickly assembled, he pulled from the satchel the piece he struggled with the most, setting it before him on the stand. Though the little lighted area he had created was dim compared to the black vastness of the auditorium stretching behind him, it was actually a bit brighter for him than the usual conditions down in the orchestra pit. The threadbare state of his dress shirt cuffs was suddenly quite apparent, the sleeves of his jacket frayed and decidedly short. Well, and bassoons were expensive, and that was the end of it. Music, food, lodging, priorities all, and very little left over to replace a suit of clothes. It wasn’t as though anyone other than himself saw his clothes anyway, as he was either at home alone in his rooms or at the opera in the dimness of the orchestra pit.

A brief warm up, and delight in the warm tones he knew he was able to produce on this instrument before heading into passages from “Searching for the One”, the solo for Aminta, which piece seemed to cause him to forget all the years of instruction and any native talent he might have had. He was only able to sustain the tone he wanted for very short moments, the complexities of the score confounding him, focusing on his finger work as though he were the veriest beginner. 

He found what he sought for one brief moment, in the portion of the solo where Aminta described the one she was searching for, someone to love her in this lifetime. But he faltered at the sweep of music that lead into a fuller description—someone who would love her for herself alone, not her face, her beauty, her hair, her grace, but for what remained when all those were swept aside. 

How could a simple romantic solo suddenly twist and become so complex, so unnerving? How could this woman, so full of love for the world, be so cruelly used during the course of the opera, deceived at every turn, seen only for her outward appearance and coveted as a possession? What were the men, all the people, in her life that they could do this to her?

Emile stopped, unable to continue. He simply did not understand it. Not the music, not the way it was constructed. Not the meaning. 

And why did he care so much about a silly story, care so much that his throat constricted, breath lost, that his fingers lost their way, that he was simply unable to play the piece the way it deserved to be played?

It wasn’t the damnable moldy practice room. It wasn’t whether he had a fine instrument or a poor one. 

He thrust the bassoon aside, scrambled into the satchel for the rest of the score. It must be something about the story itself, something he was missing. After a few shuffles of the pages, he caught his breath, found his composure. He could read this anytime, at home alone, after a meal, before sleep. He could only practice here and now. He didn’t need to read. He needed to play.

He brought his instrument to his lips, assayed “Searching for the One” yet again, found the tone, held it—and lost it yet again. He sighed, took a breath, preparing to start yet again, when he heard the soft scrape of a footstep in the wings to his left. He flinched at the unexpected sound, swinging his head towards the source, seeing only darkness past the small lighted world he had created.

A smooth, low voice called out from the wings. “You there, what’s your name?”

He was discovered. 

The watchman must have changed his rounds, or Emile had done something to alert him to his presence. He would be sent packing, his private rehearsal cut short. He should have been frustrated at this interruption of his plans. Or anxious about the possible consequences of his peculiar behavior. Instead, he felt a curious relief. He could be done for the night, stop thinking about this damnable solo and why it bothered him so.

He started to answer, before the oddities of the situation hit him, and his breath went short. If this was a watchman, where was his lantern? Why did he not step forward, out of the darkness, when he could clearly see Emile centered in his pool of light, no threat, just a single addled musician. Why had there been no sound of a door opening anywhere in the theater? Nor approaching footsteps. It was as though the man had been there before he had even arrived, watching in silence before the shift of his foot betrayed him.

Or, this was no watchman at all.

Emile didn’t even attempt a swallow, there was no point to it. Nor in running. Words, luck, and God above were all that could save him now, if what he suspected stood in the wings.

Somehow he found his voice. “Excuse me, sir. I know we aren’t to be here at night. If you’ll allow me, I will pack my things and go.”

“No,” came the voice, deep, commanding. “You will stay. Right there, just as you are. What are you trying to do?”

Emile stayed frozen, barely breathing. Peering into the darkness. Unsure whether he wanted to see or not. As long as he was talking, he was alive. As long as there was no acknowledgement made that the voice was the Phantom...then it wasn’t. 

“It’s this music, sir.”

“The music? Is that what you call what you were doing? Music?” There was a definite sneer in the cold voice.

“I am having difficulties, sir. Most obviously. I relocated from the practice room, I cannot hear myself properly in there. I thought being here would help.” He was rambling now, fear coursing through him. Giving the performance of his life, for his life. “But I was wrong. And doubtless you have better things to do than listen to the prattle of a confused musician, wishing only to have your stage cleared so you may go on about your rounds.”

Emile stuttered to a stop. Why he had not stopped after his first sentence he would never know. And there, he’d torn it. It was up to the voice now. He managed a choking swallow. Of course, it had been up to the voice this whole time.

There was a stirring in the shadows. Whatever was there moved subtly closer somehow, without sound. Emile could see what looked like eyes, golden eyes in the darkness, all else invisible.

“No, you wrong me, sir,” came an answer from the darkness. “I have an appreciation for the arts. Believe me, do. I have lived a life steeped in the arts, yearning for the arts, burning for the arts. Stay. Start the phrase again, and I will direct you.”

Dear God.

It was actually willing to play the game. No denial, no acknowledgement. 

Emile thought carefully what his next move should be and came up with nothing. Except that talking equaled breathing which equaled life, while it lasted.

“You, sir? You have a knowledge of music?”

A chuckle from the darkness. Which was good. 

And also very, very bad.

“I do. And what you require is an audience. And tutelage.” The eyes gleamed brighter. “But there are rules.”

Emile was reduced to frantic nodding.

“You will turn your eyes ahead. You will not look anywhere except ahead, or at your music. You will do as I ask, when I ask, immediately. Do you accept?”

There was only one answer. “Yes, sir.”

“Then we begin.”

* * *

Erik considered the terrified boy on the stage, straining to look straight ahead. As if his life depended on it. Which was quite a logical thing for any member of the Opera Populaire to assume, really, given recent events.

He caused his voice to carry across the stage. “You never answered my question. Your name?”

The boy tremored, took in a breath. His fingers, innocent of rings, gripped tighter to the bassoon which he held to his right side. “Emile, sir. Emile de Couer.”

“Very well, Emile—may I call you Emile?”

Another terrified nod.

“Emile, close your eyes. Do not open them until I tell you to. Tightly, now.”

Erik eased forward, cloak and hat left behind in the darkness. Had Emile but known it, Erik himself felt grave reservations about moving into the pool of light on the stage. He was not a creature of the light anymore, if he ever had been. Not like this boy before him.

There were some insurances, however. Many exits quite close to hand. A boy who seemed to offer no threat at all. And the lasso in his pocket, should looks, as they often were, be deceiving.

The watchmen, well, the watchmen had received a few bottles of very fine brandy several hours ago from an unknown benefactor. Erik had had many errands to complete this evening, and had previously found no one on the watch staff who could resist a pull of the warming liquor in the darkened and rapidly cooling environs of the opera house in the late evening. 

And if the bottles had ingredients added, which might enhance any soporific effects…well, he certainly wouldn’t have knowledge of such a thing.

He’d kept a flask for himself, it being very fine brandy indeed.

He considered Emile as he made his approach. Smooth skinned, dark hair in loose waves. Well made, good proportions. Slender, but strong. Eye color, well, would hopefully remain a mystery. Yes, a glimpse of Emile’s eyes could prove very…problematic.

Even features. Symmetrical, comely even.

Erik felt his chest tighten, his shoulders draw up, as he assessed Emile’s face from both sides. 

Young. Perhaps 24 or 25. Very young to be first chair in any orchestra, especially this one.

A prodigy, perhaps. Very likely.

Erik breathed in a tight breath, audibly enough to make Emile flinch. 

And what had he been, himself, at 24 or 25? A prodigy, certainly, always. But never smooth skinned. Well made. Comely.

That was one difference for certain, between them. And he doubted very much that this boy had any blood on his hands at 25. Or would ever.

He shook his head, casting his past back into the depths, where it belonged. His voice, when he spoke, was rather harsher than he intended.

“Emile. We are going to take this in stages. Assess where the problem might lie. We will begin with an examination of your instrument. It is a Heckel, is it not?”

The boy had recovered admirably from his jolt at Erik’s voice so close behind him.

“Yes, sir. I initially trained on a Buffet, then a Heckel which was loaned by the conservatory. This one, though, is my own. I have only had it a few years.” A tremor in the tenor voice. “It’s not even quite paid for yet.”

Erik moved within arm’s reach. “I should like to examine it closely, Emile. With your permission, sir.”

The boy nodded, eyes tightly shut. 

Erik grasped the instrument carefully with both hands. “You may let go now. You may open your eyes, remembering to look straight ahead.”

The bassoon was very fine indeed. Sound, well cared for. “Emile, may I play upon it?”

Surprise in the young voice. “Why—certainly, sir!”

Erik brought the instrument to his lips, ran several scales. Everything in order, working smoothly. The tone, even from his necessarily lopsided embouchure, rich and smooth. He noted the serial number. This was, in fact, an extraordinary specimen. 

“Eyes closed. Reach your hands out.” Erik carefully placed the clearly treasured instrument back into Emile’s grasp. With a splash of brandy from the flask applied to a handkerchief, he cleaned the mouthpiece. Emile’s nose wrinkled at the alcohol smell. Erik moved to set the small flask carefully by the boy’s left foot, stepping back and to the right behind him.

“Emile, this is not just a Heckel. This instrument was actually made by Heckel himself.”

“Yes, sir. Which accounts for why it is still not fully paid for.”

The continuing tremor in the boy’s voice would not do. “You may open your eyes. By your left foot, you will find a brandy flask. You have followed the rules admirably so far. I wish for you to relax, so that I may evaluate your style of play. I realize,” Erik made a very conscious effort to make his voice soft, “that circumstances are not ideal for a recital. If you believe the brandy would be helpful, you may avail yourself of it. This is not required.”

The boy moved to seat the bassoon in the seat strap holder, an aging leather affair clearly his own and well used. The base of the bassoon was tucked into the leather cup dependent from the strap, bearing its considerable weight. Tucking the length of the precious instrument close to his body with his right arm, the boy grasped the flask with some alacrity.

Erik allowed himself a small smile as Emile took a healthy pull from the flask, and then after only a very short consideration, another. He watched some of the tension leave the young shoulders, actual breaths drawn in, making up for the distinct lack of breathing previously.

“When you have finished, you will play for me Devienne, Sonata in G minor. You are familiar, I trust?”

Erik watched closely as the boy nodded, capping the flask, setting it carefully in front of him, then pushing it even further away with the toe of his shoe, eyes remaining strictly forward.

Good. No chance for that to become a projectile, then. And the bassoon, rare thing that it was, would most assuredly not become a bludgeon. The long leather length of the seat strap was held in place by the simple expedience of the boy seated atop it, safely out of quick reach. 

Hand to hand was not even a question. Even without the lasso, the boy was no match for him. The probability for a peaceful conclusion to this evening’s adventure increased.

Until the boy positioned the instrument and began to play.

Erik felt his mouth twist, sudden fury shivering through him like lightning.

“NO! Eyes closed!” he thundered, throwing himself forward the instant the boy’s eyes squeezed shut, ripping the precious instrument from his hands. “As you love your life, boy, keep them shut!”

* * *

Emile sat frozen in his chair.

The rules were plain. Eyes forward or on his music only. Do exactly what the voice said, immediately. There was something in the dark tone that said he would regret it if he did not.

He had had no choice but to accept the odd rules as given. When asked his name, he supplied it. He had no family to protect, and besides, should the owner of the voice approach, it was there to be read on the brass tag on his instrument case.

The instructions were given in that same even voice, as though being asked to pass the sugar. Surely, the tone implied, these were reasonable requests. Were he not convinced of his imminent death, the deep and smooth timbre of the voice would almost be soothing.

He was told to close his eyes and he did. He saw nothing. His ears straining for any sound, he heard nothing.

But there was a sense of scrutiny, as though he were stalked by some heretofore unknown animal. 

No footsteps, no rustle of cloth, but sound itself blocked by something passing close behind him, moving first to one side, then the other. He thought he almost could tell where the presence was yet a sound like a sudden indrawn breath, very close and not at all where he thought, made his muscles seize. 

Terror did not begin to describe the sensation. 

All he knew was the fate he had tempted this night in his passion for music roved around him now as he sat, blinded and in its complete control. 

The deep voice behind him, unexpected, nearly sent him to his grave right then. As his heart resumed beating, he made sense of the words being spoken to him. The voice itself was different, brittle with some unknown emotion. Questions about the instrument. He answered, new fear—how was that even possible, how was there room for more fear—blooming in his chest. The bassoon was all he had. Was it to be taken from him?

The voice became softer, more controlled as before. Emile was asked exceedingly politely for the instrument, and while the voice asked permission, there was clearly only one acceptable answer. 

The surrender of the bassoon was difficult. But—he was allowed to open his eyes! 

He looked straight ahead, as he had done before. But this time, the owner of the voice was here, on stage with him. As Emile gave his surprised answer to another polite request, this time to play the instrument, he was gathering information. Shadows might hold some answers for him, if this being cast a shadow.

The bassoon began to play. Emile could tell from the sound approximately where his—captor?—was located. The presence moved from the dark, pausing by the footlights, where Emile himself had stood earlier this evening, watching his shadow stretch out long across the stage, realizing the need for the lantern to chase his own shadow from his sheet music.

The presence did indeed cast a shadow, a man’s shadow, much longer than his own. Wider at the shoulder. The bassoon’s shadow for scale confirmed it. His captor was much larger than he was, much taller, broader, stronger. His own shoulders slumped. He would have to play this out to the end. If conditions remained the same, there was no escape.

The playing stopped. He was made to close his eyes and blessedly, the bassoon was returned to him. Small sounds of liquid, the smell of alcohol, and a slight twisting motion of the bassoon—was his captor politely cleaning the mouthpiece? 

They exchanged more words, confirming the provenance of the precious Heckel, which he clutched closely to himself.

And then his extraordinary captor made another extraordinary offer, brandy, as though they two were gentlemen friends in some extremely odd and exclusive club. And Emile to give a light recital of a Devienne composition. A lovely evening certainly, did death itself not hover behind him.

Emile seated the bassoon safely, accepting the offer of the warming drink. His mouth was dry and he was cold to his soul. The brandy chased the cotton from his mouth, brought heat to his limbs and cramped fingers. 

The respectful care of the instrument, the offer of a drink, the almost warmth in his dread companion’s voice brought some hope to Emile. The Devienne was well within his repertoire. He would play, would continue to follow all instructions, and perhaps he would escape this after all. 

He prepared himself, brought the bassoon to his lips, and had scarce begun to play when—

“NO! Eyes closed! As you love your life, boy, keep them shut!”

The soothing voice was gone, replaced by fury. 

He screwed his eyes shut so tightly he could feel his face contort.

The bassoon was torn from his fingers. 

The voice receded to his right, the power no less for distance, a hail of contempt and rage.

“Prodigy! Golden child! Never having to strive for anything, coasting on your natural talents!” 

The voice closed in again. Rage had stolen the silence from his captor’s movements. Emile heard the strike of angry footsteps approaching, and suddenly, hot breath was upon his face, blowing his hair, as the voice sneered into his ear.

“Who taught you to sit, boy? It is entirely wrong!”

Emile had moved somewhere past terror, past speech, past movement. There was only the command: eyes shut, eyes shut, eyes shut.

“I am going to put my hands on you now, boy, and you will endure it. You will not resist.”

No time was even given for an answer. 

A hand wrapped round his right calf. The strength and span of the grip startling, pulling his leg forward. 

“Like so!” 

The left leg was pushed sharply at the shin. The seat strap beneath him manipulated forward, roughly moving beneath his thighs, as though his weight meant nothing.

The forceful breaths washing across his face moved as his captor stood from where he seemingly had knelt beside him.

The hands pushed at his back, moving him forward with the same easy, startling strength. His shoulders were grasped, manipulated, his chest opening, broadening with the changes.

“Now,” the voice commanded. No longer shouting, but firm. “Level your chin. Extend your spine.”

Emile complied. 

“All tone begins with breath, boy. Your embouchure depends on breath control. Your reed responds to breath pressure. No amount of tricks can replace the need for breath.”

One broad hand slid down his back, settling at the lower curve, pressing, accentuating the arch there.

“You cannot breathe when you sit hunched, as though you were reading an ancient text. You need breath to play this instrument, to make it sing.”

The other hand slipped in front of him, spanning his belly, the long thumb pushing at his breastbone.

Soft breath returned to Emile’s ear as his captor bent over him.

“Now, breathe, boy,” said the voice, and Emile did, feeling the breath fill his body like water pouring into a vessel. 

“That’s right. Push my hands apart. Fill your chest with breath, but breathe from here.” The hand across his belly pressed for emphasis. 

The broad hands were cool, yet Emile felt his body heat as breath entered and exited, streaming in, flowing out, bringing energy, and a strange calm. He felt nothing but the strong hands upon him and the breath of life itself coursing into his lungs.

In the calmness, he realized, did he but keep the rules, he would go free. This man offered instruction, in his volatile, mercurial way, but if he’d wanted Emile dead, the game would never have been set in motion, rules put in place. And there was another revelation, sparked by the touch of the strong hands…

As he calmed and settled, so too did the rhythm of his captor’s breath at his ear. The hands became gentler upon him, then slowly lifted away.

Emile continued to breathe as he felt the presence drift away, then return. The bassoon was fitted into his hands, the calluses on the long strong fingers sliding over his skin as his hands were positioned just so. He felt the bassoon settled into the cup of the seat strap. 

“Reed farther in,” the voice directed. “Incline your head just a bit.”

Emile complied, eyes shut, face relaxed, breathing slowly and steadily through his nose. The bassoon practically floated in his arms, his abdomen free to expand and release, breath drawn in, pushed out.

“Now, play, boy. Fill your throat with breath and play ‘Searching for the One’. You know it by heart. Now play it, from your heart.”

Emile played, and stopped himself just short of his eyes flying wide open at the rich, full, beautiful sound he produced. The tone was pure, magical, the complexities of the music fading into simplicity itself.

He heard a voice join him. The most beautiful male voice he had ever heard, singing along with him, a song of a search for acceptance of one’s true self in a world that valued only appearances. 

Propriety. Custom and tradition. If anyone had seen them, here, together, before, those hands upon him, breath hot in his ear, what would they have thought? And why did it matter what they thought?

He felt his throat constrict, his tone lost as tears threatened. He stopped, his breath gone.

He wondered what his face had revealed, when the strong hands had been laid upon him, offering only instruction, Emile was sure of it. His revelation wasn’t about this man, in particular, but rather men, in general. He’d been lying to himself for a long time. Keeping to himself, hiding in the music. Until this song and the touch of those hands revealed the truth. How could he expect others to accept him, when he couldn’t even accept himself? 

Taking such a path would not make his way any easier, prodigy, golden child or no. He would be walking into danger again. But maybe…that was the only way to find what he sought.

The beautiful voice continued, bringing the lyric to a close. 

A handkerchief was pressed beneath the fingers of his left hand. When he brought it to his face, it smelled slightly of brandy.

“Open your eyes, Emile.”

He did, squeezing the bassoon tight beneath his right arm as he scrubbed at his face with the handkerchief.

The voice continued, softly, hinting at apology, moving right to left and back again as his captor paced behind him.

“Passion can make us do foolish things, Emile, things we wish we had never done, overriding our better judgement.”

“I know,” Emile said, his voice surprising in his own ears. “It’s why I came here tonight. This song, it has been driving me mad. I know I should be able to play it, and yet I couldn’t.”

The voice came from directly behind him. 

“Passion,” it said consideringly, “can encumber us in other ways. Cause the throat to tighten, the fingers to slip.”

Emile felt his cheeks heat. “It’s Aminta, I think.”

“Aminta?”

Emile started slowly, thinking as he spoke. “All she wants is someone to love her for herself. To see her for who she really is, and accept her.”

Silence stretched long behind him, then a sigh.

“Are you familiar with the Temple of Apollo at Delphi, Emile? The maxims inscribed there?"

Emile shook his head. Prodigy or no, music had been his main study since he was a child.

“The first of these is Know Thyself.” 

The voice moved again, his captor pacing as he spoke.

“Emile, there are some instruments which allow the passion of the musician free rein. The violin, the piano, the organ. The bassoon relies on breath, on control of the breath. You must make peace within yourself, with the material you play. Else you will not be able to be a part of transmitting it to others, who may find value there too.”

Emile twisted the handkerchief, considering. 

“You were right, you know,” he said.

The voice came from his left. “About what?”

“Prodigy. Golden child. Coasting.”

“Emile...”

“Not completely right. I have worked, and worked hard. This music, though, this music is a challenge. It’s been a long time since I’ve been challenged by anything. I’d like to rise to it.”

“You must keep studying, always. There are two fine teachers of the bassoon here in Paris. I will provide you with their names.”

“There…there is no money for teachers, sir.”

“Pah. There is always money. I will give you the names, you will go and see them and see what might be done. But not now. These men will not be able to help you with this music. We will go through the score together, you and I. You will ask questions, and I will provide answers. Then, you must practice. I know you demand perfection of yourself. Else you would not have come here tonight, walking into danger.”

* * *

Erik stood behind and to the right, while Emile made notes upon the score with the stub of a pencil fished from the depths of his satchel.

Emile had good questions, and Erik had ready answers. 

Several times, alternate fingering combinations upon the bassoon were required, and Emile dutifully shut his eyes as Erik directed, and let him set Emile’s fingers upon the instrument.

The boy’s tone control through the rest of the score was vastly improved. 

Some issues remained, which Erik laid at the feet of the reed.

“This reed does you no favors, Emile. This is store bought, yes? Not custom made? You do not know how to craft your own reeds?”

Emile shook his head. Erik could not see his face, of course, but the shameful slump of the shoulders was apparent. 

“Well. Tomorrow you shall go to this address—write this down, Emile—and ask for Antoine. He will fit you out with something to use for the next while, and then construct you a custom reed.”

“The money, sir. It is again an issue.”

“Nonsense. I will take care of it.”

“Sir, I do not wish to be beholden.”

“Well, and then I have a task for you, as payment. There is the matter of the third trombone…”

The score completed, they did a final run through of “Searching for the One”, start to finish, Emile playing, Erik singing. Whatever was troubling the boy about the song beyond the technical issues they addressed together, Emile had been able to put it aside and let his breath make the bassoon sing.

It came time for them to part. Emile to his home, and Erik to check the location and condition of the night watch.

The final rule, to speak of this time together to no one, was presented, and accepted.

Emile asked, his eyes shut as Erik requested, “Will I see you again, sir?”

Erik slipped into the shadows of the wings. “Not if you play well, boy.”

He was certain the boy would practice. He was driven to it. He would be as close to perfect as possible.

Christine and his music would do the rest. 

The opera would be perfect. She would see the perfection, see the soul and the beauty there, and come back to him, choose him. Save him. 

She had certainly saved this boy this evening.

* * *

The next day Emile was away to the address of the reed maker, who fitted him with a ready made reed which he altered after working with Emile and the Heckel. The customized reed would take time, and would be delivered. There was no bill, insisted Antoine, with a nervous laugh. It had been taken care of.

Long nights were spent in the practice room. Emile had been informed of the sudden availability of a much better practice room, more suited to the needs of a woodwind musician, the previous occupant having left rather hastily for reasons which remained undisclosed.

He could finally hear himself and no longer sneezed from the must of the old room. He had space here, too, to work with the third trombone, as he had promised.

One of those long nights, the third trombone introduced him to his cousin’s son, Alexandre, an artist, because the third trombone thought they would have much in common. The third trombone turned out to be exactly right.

Emile’s diligence at studying the penciled notes made upon the score paid dividends. He mastered the alternate fingerings, and through much practice, finally conquered most of the trickier parts of the score. 

Very late one night, after a particularly fine practice session, as his music faded into silence, there came a “ _Yes…_ ” spoken low into his right ear.

Two weeks prior to the premiere of _Don Juan Triumphant_ , Emile arrived at the opera house to discover a box waiting for him. Inside, he found a receipt indicating that his bassoon had been paid in full, a new set of evening clothes, which somehow fit him to perfection, and not one, but ten custom reeds in a cunningly crafted box, with an unusual Oriental motif. Someone later identified the design for him as Persian in origin. 

Also in the box was a note, which he carried on his person for the rest of his life.

* * *

Through the years, whenever that night spent on the stage at the opera house would cross Emile’s mind, he recalled not the terrible fear, but the passion for the music that had driven him out into the dark, and the passion awakened by the touch of phantom hands.


End file.
